Underland Christmas
by justadram
Summary: A selection of stories revolving around Alice's first Christmas in Underland, where she introduces her friends to traditions from Above. Alice/Hatter
1. The Plum Pudding Problem

Chapter Rating: K+

**The Plum Pudding Problem**

"Ta-dah," Alice said perfunctorily without the necessary exclamation to make it sound sincere.

Tarrant watched as she slid the large pudding onto the table. His eyes darted from the pudding to Alice's disappointed face.

"Plum puddings are different Above?" he asked warily.[1] This one was decidedly lopsided. The puddings that were often served and rarely eaten at court were perfectly round.[2] Thackery never served lopsided puddings.

"It's not supposed to look like this," she admitted, slipping into the chair opposite him. "I just wanted to make a nice Christmas pudding," she sighed.[3]

Alice's cooking left something to be desired, although Tarrant would never say so. She had been trained in embroidering screens (with uneven stitches), playing the pianoforte (rather poorly), dancing the quadrille (avoided when possible), singing (a little off key), and being a proper hostess at tea. None of it mattered to Tarrant, but of all these things, he would have hoped that tea hosting would have served her best. Unfortunately, Alice's notions about tea parties did not match Underlandian standards. What she had _not_ been taught was how to bake bannock or make burnt cream.[4]

"You're a very good boy, Alice, but perhaps you should not have stuck your thumb in it," he suggested carefully, as he fingered his fork.[5] _Perhaps it would not taste as crooked as it looked_.

Alice frowned. "I did no such thing, husband."

He tilted his head. "If you put your head just like so," he suggested, perking up at the discovery of this manner of improving the appearance of the half deflated pudding.

Alice grabbed up a knife.

He blinked quickly, but relaxed as she slid the knife into the pudding and not…

"We could set the table on the wall, Alice," he added, as he continued to think of solutions.

"This was to be our first Christmas," Alice continued, her disappointment unabated by his proposals.

Alice set great store in this Christmas festival from Above and was determined he experience it as he Ought. "Is it not anymore?"

She slid him a serving. "No, it is. It just isn't perfect. It looks frightful."

"Perfect is tedious," Tarrant pronounced, already feeling better about the irregular pudding. _After all, the irregularity might make it taste that much better_. Never mind his experience with Alice's cooking thus far.

He froze, however, as his mouth closed around the pudding. This was nothing like Underlandian pudding. Nothing at all. It not only Looked frightful, it Tasted frightful. Nonetheless, he swallowed, when he noticed Alice watching him with great interest.

_His darling lass wanted it to be perfect for __**him**__!_ "So salty!" he said cheerfully, as the bite made it down to his stomach. He hoped very much that his stomach would behave and not say anything to the contrary. Stomachs could be Contrary Creatures.

"Salty?" Alice whispered in disbelief, as she set down her own fork, which had not yet made it to her lips.

"Just the way I like it," he lied, taking up another forkful. He was quite sure that it was a White Lie—absolutely harmless if one was a subject of the kingdom of the White, which luckily he was.

The progress of the food to his mouth was stopped, as Alice's hand shot out and caught his wrist. "Stop, Tarrant. I think I may have mixed the sugar up with the salt."

He giggled, gratefully setting the fork down as her hand released his wrist. "Thackery may have switched the labels," he admitted. This disaster was not exactly Alice's Fault.

Alice shoved her plate away. "And why would he do that?" she asked a little irritably.

"In retaliation for the Salt Fairy trying to steal his salt," he explained, lifting his napkin from his lap and laying it on the table.

"Sugar Plum Fairy, you mean?" Alice asked.[6]

"What nonsense!" he giggled once more, tickled by her whimsy. "Sugar Fairy, who has ever heard of such a thing? Fairies have no need for sugar, lass." He paused, "But that puts me in mind. Should you like some sugar plums, Alice dear?"[7]

Alice smiled weakly. "I would very much like something. Otherwise, I fear the pair of us will wither away," she concluded, reaching over to caress his waistcoat, which admittedly hung a little loose.

His mouth twitched and his heart hammered. Alice had spoken extensively about Christmas and she had said nothing about Touching. If Christmas included Alice Touching, he would be a great deal fonder of the festival than he was so far.

He cleared his throat of the Thoughts that had begun to crowd his brain and fill his throat and chest. "Sugar plums?" he inquired, his voice carefully high and light.

"Yes," Alice repeated her interest in such a treat, smiling somewhat indulgently, as if she guessed at the Path of his Thoughts.

"Thackery has made some," he said, rising from the table and offering her his hand.

"You want to walk back to Marmoreal?" she asked, taking his hand.

"Why, yes. You said Christmas was about family."

"It is."

He smiled brightly at her. "Well then, lass, grab your cloak. Our family is at the palace…with plates full of sugar plums."

And then Christmas became Much Better. Alice stood on her toes and kissed him.

"Merry Christmas," she whispered against his lips.

"Very," he agreed.

* * *

[1] Plum puddings can be traced back to the early 15th century and were not originally associated with Christmas. Victorian plum puddings were not made of plums but raisins and prunes, as any number of dried fruit were called plums. It was served at the beginning of the meal.

[2] Plum puddings appear twice in _Through the Looking Glass_. A plum pudding is served but sent away at the banquet to celebrate Alice becoming queen. Tenniel's illustrations also depict the snap-dragonfly as a creature made of a plum pudding body, holly wings, and a flaming raisin head. It makes its nest in a Christmas box. This is a pun on a popular parlor game called Snapdragon, which was played on Christmas Eve. Raisins were placed in a bowl of flaming brandy and the goal was to pluck out the raisins and eat them without getting burnt. Like bobbing for apples with fire, those crazy Victorians. Do not try this at home!

[3] By the 1670s the plum pudding was associated with Christmas, and the earliest record of the plum pudding being referred to as a Christmas pudding dates to 1858. Plum puddings were so closely associated with Christmas in Victorian England that even workhouse criminals were given one on the 25th.

[4] Bannock and burnt cream are traditional Scottish cuisine. Bannock is a flat bread cut into wedges called scones. Burnt cream is like French crème brûlée and was introduced to England about the same time (late 19th century) as its French cousin. Burnt cream is said to have originated in Aberdeenshire, Scotland, and it was made by placing a hot branding iron atop cream.

[5] Tarrant is referencing the nursery rhyme, "Little Jack Horner," which was first published in 1725. The rhyme is as follows:

"Little Jack Horner  
Sat in the corner,  
Eating a Christmas pie;  
He put in his thumb,  
And pulled out a plum,  
And said 'What a good boy am I!"

[6] The Sugar Plum Fairy is a character from Tchaikovsky's ballet, _The Nutcracker_, based on the German story, _The Nutcracker and the Mouse King_, written by E. T. Hoffman in 1816.

[7] As with plum pudding, sugar plums were not actually made of plums. Instead, they were round candies, flavored, and colored, and had wire stems to make them appear to be fruit. They frequently had aniseed at their centers, and they were fashionable Christmas treats from the 17th to 19th centuries.


	2. Letter to Father Christmas

TARRANT HIGHTOPP

1 Hat House Lane

Witzend, Underland

(Reachable by White Rabbit courier service or Snapdragon delivery)

...

Dearest Father Christmas,

We have not had the pleasure of being introduced, but my Alice assures me you are a man of great generosity and spirit, therefore, I presume you will not find it Presumptuous of me to have written you Unbidden. Indeed! Alice has said that children are _supposed _to write you. Not that I am a child. No, far from it. But, I still have Wants for Christmas, smallish Wants. Is a list very Rude? Alice promises it is an accepted practice, and she is an Expert on Rudeness. Not the practice of it, mind you, but the identification of it.

One. Thimbles. I am forever misplacing mine. Or a perturbed Mouse friend of mine might be to blame.

Two. A length of blue silk. I have a rather particular plan in mind for it.

Three. The complete works of Willy the Weasel. He gives me the giggles.

Four. A barrel of Witzend Wine, which also gives me the giggles, I'm afraid!

Five. **Alice**. Yes, she is presently in the next room with her head on my pillow, but one can never be too careful. Never mind the above requests if you can deliver on this one.

Sincerely _with a flourish_,

Tarrant Hightopp,

Hatter to the White Queen

PS Do you really keep company with Reindeer? Are they terribly stubborn? I suspect they might be, based on my dealings with Mule Deer.


	3. Natio Fabula

Chapter Rating: K+

**Natio Fabula**[1]

Alice shuffled: her back pressed against Tarrant's chest, as he led her forward, her skin cool where his thimbles lightly touched her brows and her cheek bones, her eyelashes brushing against his fingers, her eyes resolutely closed. For even though his hands were supposed to keep the surprise, his fingers were so oddly splayed that she could see chinks of whatever it was before her if she wanted. She did not. She would not spoil the surprise, which not only her Hatter but also her friends seemed so eager to share with her.

She could not even be sure where she was in the palace. Tarrant had spun her, directing her with barely contained giggles _to keep her eyes closed_. The outcome had been a total lack of a proper sense of direction as he had begun to guide her through hallways and adroitly down stairs and up them again. For all she knew, they were going in circles, which seemed likely, since he had recently conspiratorially confessed to her that Circles were his favorite of all shapes.

"Almost there," he whispered against her ear, raising pleasant bumps along her arms. "Almost, Alice," he assured her.

Indeed, he was beginning to pull back on her, slowing her forward shuffle.

"Open Sesame," he mouthed, his lips brushing the lobe of her ear.[2]

Alice chuffed a little nervously, an imitation of a silent laugh and exhalation of air—nervous both from the feel of his lips against her and the promise of whatever surprise lay exposed before her as his hands dropped from her.

Her eyes opened and blinking away the lingering stars, she realized immediately that she was in the elaborately draped Queen's Royal Theatre, draped in white just like the rest of the palace. The stage was arrayed with any number of very not white creatures and costumes, however. A tableaux vivant, she recognized, feeling slightly stunned, as Tarrant hurriedly came to stand alongside her, his hand slipping into the small of her back.[3]

He was looking for her reaction. In her peripheral vision, she could see that his face was set in a wide grin. A grin that would fall unless she very soon gave the appropriate response to the surprise they had prepared for her.

When all she could think was—_Heavens, it's a sacrilege!_

_For it must be, mustn't it?_

To be fair, it was more _vivant_ than _tableaux_. Chessur, who was a most unholy angel, was slowly floating up and down, grinning as broadly as Tarrant with a mouth full of gleaming teeth, and the magi, portrayed by Nivens and Thackery, were rather twitchy with the one nervously checking his pocket watch as if he might have somewhere else to be and the other waving a wooden spoon back and forth with great gusto.

While the rest of them were doing a better job of staying still, they were no better suited for their roles. Mally made a rather threatening shepherd, holding a hatpin sword and not a staff, and her companion, Bayard, seemed to have fallen asleep. Joseph was leaning against a chair, nothing more than a painted cutout, which inexplicably wore a top hat that resembled someone else's with which she was intimately familiar.

At least Mirana looked suitably serene as the Virgin, but the White Queen gazed down upon not one but two babes.

"They could not be made to take turns," Tarrant explained away the two rotund Tweedles crammed in a feedbox that must have been commandeered from the stables, as if he could read her mind.

She hoped very much he could not. Her thoughts were attempting to become Charitable, but they were not quite at that destination yet.

"And two is better than one, is it not?" he urged.

"Yes," she assented softly.

"Is it as good as your Nativity plays Above?" Mally called out from the stage, scuffing her feet in the straw that littered the stage.[4]

Tarrant seemed to echo the Dormouse's question, rubbing his thumb over the silk of her tunic at the small of her back in a wordless inquiry.

Alice drew a deep breath, feeling Tarrant's hand upon her and his gaze fixed in hopeful rapture. "It is better."

She had believed that it would be a White Lie, but as she said it, she knew the Truth of it. It was not a Nativity scene her local bishop would approve of, but her mother always suspected he tippled, and if Helen Kingsleigh could find fault with the man, Alice did not know why _she_ should think on _his_ approval.[5] Yes, it was certainly much better: it was a scene of friends, it was a scene made just for her out of Love. Surely that was more in the spirit of Christmas than Mrs. Lions' stiffly starched tableaux practiced with gruff and grumbling and much wiping of noses.

"Much better," she finished.

The tableaux came to life in celebration of their success. Mirana pressed her hands together in pleasure, the Tweedles shook a rattle gripped between them and kicked their legs awkwardly (trapped as they were like turtles on their backs), Bayard cracked one sleepy eye, Mally brandished her sword, Nivens tucked his watch away with feigned resignation, Chessur dematerialized and materialized in quick succession, and Thackery hiccupped loudly.[6]

Taking Tarrant's hand, she pulled him towards the stage. "I believe you are supposed to be Joseph, Tarrant."

"Well, someone had to fetch you."

"I am duly fetched. And now I would like to be a camel."

He squeezed her hand, lisping, "I thought you might."

"He would not let anyone be the camel," Chessur sighed, licking his paw fastidiously.

Alice scrambled atop the stage with a boost from her Hatter. "And there must be a camel," she said knowingly.

"Three humps!" Thackery exclaimed, knocking his spoon against the feedbox.

"Two at very least," she agreed.

* * *

[1] _Natio_ – birth (Latin); _fabula_ – fable, story, drama (Latin), when used in an exclamation, it means 'nonsense!'.

[2] 'Open Sesame' is a phrase taken from the adventure tale of _Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves_, a part of _One Thousand and One Nights_. The phrase, 'Open, Simsim,' was the magic phrase to open the cave that housed the treasure in the tale. This tale's plot was a popular one for Victorian pantomimes.

[3] Tableaux vivants or living pictures were a popular form of entertainment in Victorian England. The intention was to recreate a famous painting, engraving, or sculpture with live bodies, who dressed in imitation of the art and remained motionless. They were often performed as the basis for Victorian school nativity plays (called Christmas pageants in America).

[4] Nativity plays owe their foundations to medieval mystery plays. One of the most famous, the York Mystery Plays, was composed of 48 plays, of which the twelfth through nineteenth plays portrayed the Nativity story. These stories were presented on carts and wagons. Many were written in alliterative rhyme. The plays were repressed in 1569 due to their Catholic origins.

[5] Tipple – to drink alcohol, especially excessively

[6] The first verse of the nursery rhyme about Tweedledum and Tweedledee is as follows:

"Tweedledum and Tweedledee

Agreed to have a battle;

For Tweedledum said Tweedledee

Had spoiled his nice new rattle."

Carroll describes them in _Through the Looking Glass _as two fat men, who agree to have a battle but never do. Presumably, by this time they have found a new rattle that Dee has not yet spoiled.


	4. Water Becomes Bone

Written for the Alice in Wonderland 2010 Holiday Exchange (**aiwxchange2010** LJ)

**Water Becomes Bone**

"What is this about?" Alice asks, as her Hatter—she believes she can safely think of him as such now—spins her about by her shoulders, wrapping her into her scarf as opposed to her scarf about her.

"We had five nights together last night," Hatter explains, giving the scarf a tug, as he tucks the ends into her wool cape.

"Have the seasons changed?" Alice asks, taking the mittens from him that he is holding out with a look of great anticipation. "Is it winter?"

"Yes, quite," he nods, obviously pleased at her quickness—quickness of mind and quickness of dressing. There must be something he is Desperate to show her.

"I thought the benefit of having the nights together was for the warmth." It is illogical to begin with, so there is no real point in arguing the matter, but Alice has a contrary streak. Her Hatter has assured her that the streak is a Blue satin ribbon running up her left leg. _Shapely leg_, he said. Alice blushes at the memory, pinkening before the cold can get the chance to perform the function for her.

He is pushing her towards the door, having already tossed a scarf over his own shoulder and tugged fingerless gloves onto his hands, when he responds, "Five times as warm."

"Then I don't suppose we'll need all these clothes," she wagers, as her fingers grip the doorknob.

"Don't go around supposing things, Alice," he warns her. "It is five times as cold today. Best to get it over with, you know."

Alice smirks, as she pulls the door open. Her Hatter is very good with riddles without answers. He even knows some with answers too.

"Unless you are merely looking for excuses to remove clothes, which is…Scandalous," he lisps, teasing her.

She _thinks_ he is teasing her.

Her train of thought is interrupted by the crunch of something beneath her feet. Alice looks down.

_Snow_.

Underland has been blanketed in snow while she slept in her Hatter's bed and he dozed before his hearth. Ten Hatter sized paces away from her bedside. Fourteen Alice sized paces. They had both checked, for Accuracy's sake.

"Snow," he whispers against her ear.

His warm breath puffing against her already cooling skin causes her breath to hitch, bringing memories to the surface. Recent memories. Just last night he had very purposefully set her on the other side of bedroom door. Shut the door. Placed wood between the two of them after a very nice, increasingly improper, impolite, irrepressible kiss had him scrambling against her.

"_Tarrant?" she whispered, her palms reaching up to press the door that had closed him off from her._

"_Goodnight, Alice."_

She should be relieved that her Hatter is a gentleman. Wetting her lips and scanning the whitened horizon, she acknowledges to herself silently that she is not so much relieved as disappointed. The disappointment spills over her, making her blink as his hand skates down her arm until it finds her mittened hand and squeezes.

"It's beautiful."

"Come, come," he says, pulling her from the doorway of his house. His cozy, somewhat ramshackle house. A place where she has begun to imagine herself living, rather than visiting.

"The snow isn't what you were going to show me?" she asks, hurrying after him, happy that she is dressed in trousers and boots, much like her Hatter, and not heavy skirts that would already be getting wet with this snow.

"Oh, no!" he says, tossing her a look over his shoulder, since she is a step behind. He sounds somewhat scandalized. "Think bigger, better, Alice. Think imaginatively."

"There is no guessing," Alice mumbles. Underland is a world of surprises. How is she to guess what her Hatter has in mind? "Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral?" she poses, hoping he will rise to the bait of a game.

He does not disappoint. "Mineral. A fearsome mineral!"

Alice laughs. She has finally caught up the step that separated them and playfully bumps his shoulder with her own.

"Truly," he says with great sincerity. "It has the power to smash ships and crush roofs."

"Fearsome indeed," Alice agrees.

With his free hand, Tarrant pulls his hat down a bit further over his brow. "To be fair…" he hedges. "It is also afraid of the sun."

"Hmm…" Alice ponders, but she has very little Time to come up with an answer to what she now realizes is a riddle, because he rushes in, interrupting her thoughts.

"On the way, a miracle,

Water becomes bone."[1]

Alice has now figured the meaning to his riddling, but she cannot souse out why he would want to show her ice. She cannot imagine why this would be bigger or better than snow. The snow is already very pretty, and there are all sorts of interesting things they could be doing with it—snowball fights, snow angels, and castle or snowman building—instead of trudging through it. But she allows herself to be pulled up a hillside, her Hatter taking a hold of her arm as he scurries up and through some frozen brambles. They skid to a halt at the top of the hill as Hatter's field of ice comes into view.

The lake—a lake she was unaware existed until this moment—has frozen over.

He turns to her, all grins and bright green eyes.

"Just think what five nights together can accomplish," she marvels. Yesterday it was fair. She barely needed a shawl, and now there is a vast frozen lake before them. "How did you know?"

"A little bird told me."

Alice is unsure whether this is the Truth or merely a turn of phrase. Either is perfectly Possible in Underland.

She bites her lower lip and ponders the ice just begging to be enjoyed. "If only we had skates."

He tilts his head slightly to the left, indicating inquisitiveness. He matches her in terms of curiosity.

"Ice skates, for skating on the ice," Alice explains, as she now becomes the one pulling along the other, down towards the ice. Alice enjoys skating on ponds a great deal.

"Ice skates," he repeats, as they reach the bottom of the hill and pick their way towards the edge of the white, stone-like water.

"For gliding," Alice states, sticking a boot out over the ice. "Is it safe?" she asks.

"Is it too fearsome for us?" he asks, stepping out onto the ice without so much as a second thought.

"Spare a second thought!" she heartily urges him, holding onto his arm in case she needs to pull him back to land.

"I haven't Time enough for that," he insists, dragging her out onto the ice with him.

Her father always cut a chunk to make sure the ice was thick enough to hold them—herself and Margaret. This is rather an act of Faith.

"We've all the Time in the world," she assures him. She has promised him that she is not going to leave: not tomorrow, not the next day, but there is an urgency about him that leads her to believe that he is not Fully Convinced.

"Are you sure we need skates?" he pants, as he slips unintentionally on the ice and succeeds in gliding several feet further, although to call it gliding is rather generous.

"No," she lies. She would not want him to think anything wanting, anything not quite right. For everything is, here with him. Together.

His grip on her was torn free during the windmilling and slip sliding that has just occurred, so she takes two careful steps out further onto the ice and reaches out to him once more. The leather on the soles of her boots feel inadequate on this slick surface and Alice fears that her bottom will meet with this looking glass like surface before all is said and done.

He giggles, gripping his hat and her thick mittened hand. She can see his tongue through the gap in his teeth. She felt that tongue against hers last night, she remembers. If it is possible, she flushes brighter, her cheeks rosy with the cold and burning from within.

"Further?" he questions, and Alice has a moment of Revelation.

She would follow him anywhere. She would follow him into uncharted waters, frozen or otherwise; she will lose things with him, find others. Yes, there will be a Fall before it is all over. She cannot bring herself to care. What can be so bad about Experience? Why cherish a state of being?

_'tis too cold a companion; away with 't!_[2]

Yes, she will go further with him.

Only, the fall comes sooner than she expected; except that it is not hers, it is his. His heel loses purchase and he reels back. He is already half up, half down, when Alice realizes that his Fall is to be hers as well. They are a pair. He holds tight to her and down they tumble.

He grunts as the seat of his trousers meets the ice. Recovering quickly, his arms are already wrapping around her as she falls face forward into his lap. Alice blinks, swallowing as she takes note that his hat has skidded away from him, having been jarred from his head by the impact. The impact of her meeting him in a most Personal and Private manner.

"Excuse me," she whispers, feeling as if some Apology must be made, for she is still pressed against him, his arms about her waist and the fingers of one of her hands threading into his hair of their own accord. This is a most unusual position to be in!

Suddenly there is a boldness in his gaze, in the way he rakes his eyes over her and Alice braces herself for something, just as she was bracing herself for a fall.

"You're Alice," he says, seemingly awed by that fact. "Here. A right, proper Alice."

_Yes_, Alice thinks. Not just here in Underland. _Here in your lap_. She would get up, she promises herself, but his gaze holds her there as much as his hands do. It is a weak promise, for she knows the secret desire of her heart.

"A miracle: Water becomes bone," he states once more.

This time the words are spoken against her mouth, and Alice finds that she prefers them infinitely more that way.

_Thank heavens, _he is kissing heragain. It feels as if she has been holding her breath ever since he stopped last night. It is the most pleasant relief to feel him pressed against her. From where their thighs meet to his lips against hers, Alice feels alive in a way that one does not normally _feel_ aliveness. His mouth is warm, and Alice thinks there is no need for hot cider with kisses like this to be had. She can not feel the cold of the air or the ice beneath her knees, as he presses his hand into the small of her back and pulls insistently at her lower lip. Not at all.

Her heart hammering in her chest, though—that she can amply feel.

"I am awash in miracles, Alice."

His voice rumbles in his chest. If she could only get closer, it occurs to her, she might have felt it there before it ever left his lips. But there are layers of clothes in the way. Propriety demands it, but Alice parted ways with Propriety some time ago, and she finds herself wishing that she could divest him of some of these garments.

His lips have left hers for too long to murmur these words and stroke her cheek with breathy kisses that feel like silent promises. Full of Greed, Alice uses the leverage of her fingers in his hair to draw him back to her lips, mouthing his name on a puff of white air as she does. Her eager insistence or his name on her lips brings him back to kissing her with renewed vigor.

She shifts in his lap and is rewarded for her rocking motion with a moan, which makes something tighten in her stomach. As his tongue begs entry once more, a shiver runs up her body, warming places she has never had much cause to contemplate. _This, __**this**_ is what she would like to do all day. Unless there are even bigger, better things to do, which Alice suspects there are. Things with her Hatter.

Her fingers work at his neck, trying to part scarf and coat and collar from what she is certain must be warm flesh beneath all these layers. "I want," she whispers against his neck, having worked at least some layers apart.

"Yes?" he responds, his lips brushing the shell of her ear.

She vaguely registers that his hands are shaking against her back. She may be quite content exploring the territory beyond the last signpost for Propriety, spilled atop him on the ice, but he is actually splayed over the ice in what no doubt is a very chilly position. He may be rather uncomfortable if still enthusiastic.

She pulls away to see his face even as he attempts to chase her lips with his own. Preternaturally pale, it is difficult to tell if he is paler with the cold. For that matter, she is unsure whether it was cold that was making him shake. Whatever the cause, she has made up her mind.

"S'cold," she says, sitting back on her heels and offering him her hand. "Let's go home."

"Home?"

With someone else a statement such as hers might have been presumptuous, but Alice knows, she feels, she is certain that Tarrant wants his home to be hers as well. For it to be theirs. He only repeats it to be assured that he has not heard wrong. For her Hatter is full of self doubt. To convince him that no doubt is necessary when it comes to her will be a pleasant task.

"Shall we?" she asks brightly, as she carefully gets her feet under her and he follows suit.

"You would like to go home?"

"Yes, with you, where there are warmer, softer places for us to rest together, hmm?" she says with a saucy smile. She has not had much practice in flirting, but the color flooding Tarrant's cheeks and the green of his eyes seem to indicate that she has hit her mark despite her lack of experience.

He blinks at her, as if she has spoken Greek to him, before straightening his back with resolve. "Home again, home again, jiggety-jig," he says with a nod, bending down to reach for his escaped hat.[3] "Only," he pauses, having set his hat upon his head and taken her hand once more. "Perhaps given the ice and snow, Alice…we might postpone our jigging until the sun has made it quite safe again to frolic."

"I can wait," Alice agrees, holding back with great effort a laugh that would potentially spoil the mood. It is not a jig for which she yearns. The twitch of her Hatter's mouth tells her that despite his carefully lisped words, it is not jigs that crowd his mind either.

She glances over her shoulder, looking out over the frozen expanse. "Will it still be like this tomorrow?"

"There's no telling," he admits. "Hare today, gone tomorrow, you know."

She could feel disappointed about that (not the pun! she hears the pun and appreciates it greatly), but she does not. She puts her mind to bigger and better things. She uses her Imagination to think of all the things that await her, and they are Marvelous.

* * *

[1] This riddle is taken from _The Exeter Book_, also known as the Codex Exoniensis, which is a tenth-century book of Anglo-Saxon poetry. There are over 90 riddles in the codex, which are all written in the style of poetry.

[2] Shakespeare's _All's Well That Ends Well_, Act I, Scene 1.

The full verse is:

"Virginity by being once lost

may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it is

ever lost: 'tis too cold a companion; away with 't!"

[3] "To Market, To Market" is a nursery rhyme that was first recorded in 1598, and by the 19th century the rhyme had taken shape as:

"To market, to market, to buy a fat pig,

Home again, home again, jiggety-jig.

To market, to market, to buy a fat hog,

Home again, home again, jiggety-jog.

To market, to market, to buy a plum bun,

Home again, home again, market is done."


End file.
